Well, you provincials out there, it's all true: I do look down on you. All you imagine is how it is. But worse. I am as narrow-minded, bigoted and arrogant as you think. When we talk about where we live, I'm thinking, I'm a Londoner, and you're not. That, and how can you stand the sticks? I don't understand choosing an urban place that isn't a major international city or capital. If family obligations or finances keep you from civilisation, I understand. But otherwise…

For me, the country is one generic place. It means not-London, yet at least it has its own character: grass, disgusting smells, cows. But the not‑London that is Manchester, Bristol, Piddle-upon-Nowhere – what's the point? Why put up with urban hardships if it's not the real thing? If it's not famous, celebrated, the centre of all activity? Though I'll admit part of me questions whether it's worth it. I fear London's killing me. The traffic fumes line my lungs with lead. The commute across town is a trial. I'm paying more for the same things as townlet dwellers. Perhaps I'm an idiot about to get emphysema.

But the real point of London is the people – the top people flood into this place. The most interesting, the top of their professions, the most exciting, cosmopolitan. Suburbanites just don't light my fire. I'm secretly laughing when people think their little towns are brilliant – I'm not impressed by minor celebrities when we have the Queen; by your magistrates when we have the prime minister. Why hide in the armpit if you can live in the heart?